Page 129 of His To Erase
I click the lamp on in a flash and it floods the room with light—but there’s no one there. Just shadows and silence. Except something is off. I feel it, heavy and humming just beneath the surface of the quiet.
I look over to grab the blanket I threw over the back of the couch before I left—only it’s not there anymore. No, it’s folded into a perfect square, sitting on the cushion next to me like a calling card.
My stomach lurches. I didn’t fold that. I haven’t even touched it. At least—I don’t remember touching it.
God, did I?
No, I didn’t.
So either I’m losing my mind… or someone was hereandthey were careful enough not to wake me. Am I crazy? Maybe I did fold it?
I’m up in seconds, grabbing a knife, and checking the door like it might give me a straight answer, but it’s still locked and the chain is still firmly in place. I move fast now, trying notto panic, checking the cabinets, the closets, and even under the bed.
I check behind the shower curtain—because yeah, that’s not exactly how I want to die. Naked and blinded with shampoo in my eyes… but there’s nothing.
That’s the part that scares me most.
I grab my phone off the counter, yanking the charger out of the wall like it personally betrayed me, and I have two missed calls. One from Sarah and the other from Frank. There’s also a message from him, but I can’t open it because if it’s sweet, I’ll let myself believe him again. And if it’s annoying, I’ll throw the phone through the fucking window.
Neither option ends well.
My thumb hovers over Sarah’s name, knowing she’s fast asleep like a normal person, but I tap it anyway. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.
I guess when you’re unraveling at two in the goddamn morning, the universe makes damn sure you’re alone for it.
I stare at the screen.
Steven’s number is there from when I called myself earlier. As if I needed a reminder that he’s now tangled in this mess too.
My hands are shaking. I don’t want to need him, and I really don’t want to owe him, but I also don’t want to sit here wondering if I’m about to be the next dateline episode. I still don’t type anything, because what the hell would I even say?
Hey, I think someone rearranged my shit while I was unconscious and now I’m spiraling—can you come be scarier than my stalker, please?
He also could be lying about the stalker thing.Yeah, no.
He’d probably laugh, then say something smug, unbearable and, infuriatingly, right. And I don’t know what’s worse—being alone... or being alone with him.
I toss my phone onto the couch like it’s his fault I feel like this.
“I’m fine,” I mutter to myself. “We’re fine.”
My legs feel like they’re moving without me as I push up off the cushions. I head for the bedroom like it’s a battlefield instead of the one place that I should feel safe. The lights are still off, and everything looks the same. Boring, even. The kind of boring I’d sell my soul to believe in right now.
I cross the room and step into the bathroom like I’m trying to prove a point. Maybe if I just go through the motions of getting ready for bed—brush my teeth, wash my face—I can convince myself I’m being dramatic. That my brain’s just playing trauma Mad Libs again.
I flip on the light—my toothbrush is gone. It’s not on the sink, not in the cup where I always leave it, and not on the counter. It’s not even on the floor.
I turn slowly, dread crawling up my spine like a spider, and freeze in the doorway. My toothbrush is on my pillow. Placed dead center like someone wanted me to find it there.
My stomach flips, then nosedives.
Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?
That’s not just someone messing with me. That’s someone in my space, in my bedroom, in my head. I take one step back, then another, bumping into the wall and I am now one thousand percent certain that someone was for sure in my fucking apartment. They stood in my bedroom, they touched my stuff, and I don’t realize I’ve started crying until a tear hits my collarbone.
My body betrays me in the worst way—ripping through the armor I’ve spent years welding shut, breaking past every defense I swore was unshakable. My feet are flying across the floor as I rush back into the living room, grabbing my phone off the couchlike it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and this time…I don’t hesitate.
I call Sarah and it goes straight to fucking voicemail, again. Figures. She’s probably asleep, drooling on her pillow like a well-adjusted adult with no one breaking into her apartment to rearrange her toothbrush.
